


Struck

by colonel_bastard



Category: Aquaman (2018)
Genre: Blood, Codependency, First Kiss, Incest, M/M, Revelations, Self-Sacrifice, Serious Injuries, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-12-27 02:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18295004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: There’s nothing Arthur can do. He’s still stumbling backwards, barely a split-second to register the existence of the weapon before it’s hurtling towards him, leaving him nowhere to go and no time to run. He throws up his hands in a useless reflexive gesture, his eyes wide with shock, watching in numb horror as the spear closes in——until his view is suddenly blocked by his brother’s back, as Orm skids in front of him and takes the blow himself.A surprise attack from an old enemy leaves Arthur and Orm at the threshold of revelation.





	1. impact

**Author's Note:**

> for [brodinsons](https://twitter.com/brodinsons), who waited on the dock every morning at sunrise until this fic came home.
> 
> normally i don't post first chapters/incomplete fics but i'm hoping that getting this out in the open will then force me to be held accountable for my actions. i'll do my best to get you some more soon.

-

-

-

Their enemy catches them inland, out of their element and unarmed. They couldn’t possibly be more vulnerable. Arthur has to wonder how long this asshole’s been tracking them, just waiting for them to show their bellies. God, how many times will he have to pay for the same mistake?

This was supposed to be a good day. In retrospect, maybe it was too good to be true— Orm finally accepting an invitation to visit the surface, after a particularly intense line of questioning about Arthur’s life before Atlantis led to the inevitable _c’mon, why don’t you just let me show you?_ A month ago Orm would have been reluctant. Two months ago he would have refused outright. Today he says yes, not a trace of hesitation, with a note of something in his voice that suggests he would follow Arthur right off the edge of the earth if that’s where Arthur asked him to go. 

It’s not just his voice, either. It’s the focus in his gaze, the faithful dedication in his stance, a constant presence in Arthur’s shadow ever since his reprieve was granted. The change in him is remarkable. This is no longer the cruel stranger that Arthur met in the throne room, cloaked in armor and anger, his blood coursing with poisonous hate. Now the armor is gone and the poison drained out of him, and Arthur keeps being struck again and again by the same incredible, overwhelming thought: _That’s my little brother._

They traveled north together on a king tide. Arthur was eager to show off one of his favorite little corners of the world, to prove to Orm that not everything up there is as bad as he might have once thought. Their timing couldn’t be better. It’s spring, and the village is thriving. At Arthur’s request, Orm even consented to dressing in surface clothes, so that they could walk among the locals unnoticed and unbothered. There was a time when he never would have considered such an indignity. But for Arthur’s sake, on their painstaking journey towards meeting in the middle, Orm is willing to make the effort. 

A stroll around the village wasn’t enough. Arthur had to show him the forest. So they kept walking, further and further from the sea, too wrapped up in the pleasure of each other’s company to mind. They have so much lost time to make up for. Arthur wants to spend every waking moment with him, getting caught up on every single detail that Orm is willing to share, desperate to know his brother better than he’s ever known anyone. God, Arthur didn’t even realize how much he missed him until he met him. 

It’s not fucking fair. This was supposed to be a really good day. 

He waits for them to reach their limit, as far from the water as they’re going to get. Then, just as they turn to start the walk back, a beam of blood-red energy splits the earth between them and sends them scrambling in opposite directions for cover. Black Manta has finally run his prey to ground. 

What comes next is quick and ugly— one high-powered suit of Atlantean battle armor versus two full-strength sons of Atlantis. This desolate corner of wilderness serves as their arena, scattered with trees but largely open terrain. Manta stays at a distance this time, choosing to fire from the air rather than risk coming in to close quarters where they might lay hands on him. They have to fight him from the ground; but the landscape is scattered with potential projectiles, and the plasma beams are answered with stones and logs and anything else that might have a chance of knocking their enemy out of the sky. Arthur and Orm keep him turning, dividing his attention between their efforts, never giving him the space to focus on a single killing blow. It’s the first time they’ve ever been in combat together. Arthur wishes he wasn’t too scared shitless to enjoy it. 

Because this is all his fault. 

His fault that Manta wants them dead. His fault that they ended up so far from the sea. His fault that Orm is now caught out in the open without a scrap of armor on his back, weaponless and stranded on dry land, faced with an enemy that could actually cause him serious harm. And okay, yeah, maybe that last part is technically Orm’s fault— but as far as Arthur’s guilt is concerned, motive trumps method any day. Orm is in danger because of Arthur’s mistake. If anything happens to him— _god, if anything happens to him_ — Arthur can barely concentrate on the fight, he’s so blinded with fear. He remembers how much this suit can hurt. They won’t be able to keep him turning forever. 

The combat falls into a rhythm, back and forth in a brutal parody of a tennis match. First there’s a burst from the plasma beams, followed by a window of time where the weapons have to recharge. That’s when Arthur and Orm take their shots, battering Manta with everything they can get their hands on, circling in an ever wider radius as they tear through their available ammunition. The armor is impenetrable; their only hope is to hammer it with enough percussive force to throw him off balance, either sending him into the ground or at least bringing him low enough to jump up and grab hold. Then the beams recharge and there’s nothing to do except try not to get hit. Every time Manta takes aim at one of them, the other pelts him from behind, throwing off his shot. He made a mistake when he moved against them as a pair. They’ll make sure he regrets it.

Manta’s just opened fire at Arthur when Orm nails him with a rock the size of a shopping cart. The subsequent stray beam misses Arthur by inches, tearing into the ground at his feet and flipping him like a tiddlywink, sending him flying. He tumbles to a halt in a graceless heap as Manta wheels away for the recharge, giving Arthur a chance to raise his head and lock eyes on a nearby tree that would make a really great projectile missile. 

He knows he has a window of time where the plasma beams are neutralized. So even though his instincts scream against it, Arthur turns his back on his enemy and makes a dash for his target, hands and feet clambering across the rough ground in a messy scramble. This could be the one that finishes it. He’s already picturing the tree in his grip, already gathering the strength he intends to put into the throw. He has time. There’s plenty of time. 

“ _Arthur!_ ” 

The raw panic in Orm’s voice makes Arthur’s blood run cold. He can hear at once that he’s in trouble, bad trouble, and it’s from something directly behind him. His surge of momentum keeps carrying him towards the damn tree even as he fumbles to turn on his heel, his body still lurching backwards, staggering in reverse. There’s Black Manta, bearing down on him from above. The eyes of the helmet are dark. That’s because he’s not going to use the plasma beams. He’s going to use the spear that he’s just snapped to its full extension in his right hand. 

_Well, shit._

Time freezes just long enough for Arthur to realize that Manta must have repurposed the Atlantean steel from the blades in his forearms. It makes sense, in retrospect; not much use for weapons like that when his new strategy is to keep his distance, and he’d be a fool to let a good blade go to waste. Still. A fucking spear. Arthur never saw it coming.

But Orm did.

There’s nothing Arthur can do. He’s still stumbling backwards, barely a split-second to register the existence of the weapon before it’s hurtling towards him, leaving him nowhere to go and no time to run. He throws up his hands in a useless reflexive gesture, his eyes wide with shock, watching in numb horror as the spear closes in—

—until his view is suddenly blocked by his brother’s back, as Orm skids in front of him and takes the blow himself. 

“ _Wait—!_ ” Arthur cries out.

But it’s already too late for that.

There’s an excruciating stretch of seconds where Orm manages to stay on his feet. It’s just long enough for Arthur to deliriously hope that he somehow caught the weapon in his hands— _he’s so strong, so fast— surely it must be possible_ — but then Orm staggers into a quarter turn and Arthur sees the spearhead buried up to the hilt in his brother’s belly. 

It doesn’t even seem real. Arthur has seen so many versions of this moment in his nightmares, each one different at first but always the same in the end, leaving him to bolt awake in a cold sweat with a pounding heart and tears in his eyes. In the beginning he would have to lie there wide awake until morning, unable to rest until he saw his brother again and made sure that he was all right. These days he can just roll over and make sure that Orm is still sleeping safely beside him. 

_They’ve been sharing a bed for weeks now. It just feels right, to stay close to each other. Like they were always meant to be this way._

Orm clutches at the wound with a muffled groan. Blood spills over his fingers as he raises his eyes to meet Arthur’s, their gazes locked for one harrowing, heart-stopping glance. Then his knees buckle and Orm collapses onto his back, the shaft of the spear pointing towards the sky. 

Arthur looks down at his brother, so stunned that he can barely process what’s just happened. He looks up at his enemy, at the plasma beams that have begun to glow with the warning of an oncoming blast. 

And Arthur sees _red_. 

It’s funny, but there was a time when he used to think that was just an expression. Now he knows he’s just never been angry enough to see it himself. 

_Anger_ doesn’t even begin to describe it. It’s like his whole body has become a live round of ammunition, his field of vision tunneled down to a single set of crosshairs, his rational mind slipping towards something completely blank. Arthur doesn’t try to fight it. He doesn’t think. He lets instinct hurtle him up to his feet, his hands seizing onto the tree trunk and yanking it up from the ground with all the ease of pulling a weed. He doesn’t even stop to aim. His focus on his target is so absolute that Arthur knows he could hit him from a hundred yards away. He makes his throw without a second thought and with every ounce of his strength. 

It’s dead-on. Manta has no choice but to fire the next burst of energy at the oncoming projectile, trying to fend off the worst of the impact— the aim is hasty and the tree shatters at an awkward angle, catapulting the bulk of the root system right into him at top speed. It sends him pinwheeling backwards through the sky, his plasma charge exhausted, distanced and neutralized for a precious handful of seconds. 

Which is a good thing, because Arthur can’t stop himself from turning his back on his enemy all over again. All he can think about is getting to Orm, dropping into a frantic crouch at his side, his hands reaching automatically towards the hilt of the spear before retracting in utter helplessness. It’s buried too deep. Orm has both fists locked around the shaft, keeping the weapon as still as he can, his breath hissing between his teeth. He looks up at Arthur with anguished, apologetic eyes. Arthur shakes his head, mute with terror. 

He’s about to say: _I don’t know what to do._

But before he can speak, Orm tightens his grip on the spear and yanks it out of his belly with an awful, strangled scream.

The sound is echoed by Arthur’s startled yelp of panic as blood geysers out of the open wound— _so much blood_ — for the second time he reaches towards the damage, desperate to do something, _anything_ to make it better. But he never gets a chance to try. His open hands are blocked when Orm presses the slick red hilt of the spear into his grip. 

“You’ll have one shot,” Orm rasps. “Make it count.” 

Arthur’s breath catches in his chest. Somewhere far behind him, he hears the distant whine of Manta’s armor coming back towards them, harmonized with the high-pitched hum of the plasma beams recharging. There’s no time. Arthur’s grip tightens on the weapon, his eyes locked with his brother’s. 

“Tell me when.” 

Orm grits his teeth and nods. Keeping one arm curled around his belly, he forces the other underneath him, pushing up until he can raise his head enough to look back over Arthur’s shoulder. 

“Forty yards back,” he mutters. “Over your left shoulder. Thirty-five.”

Arthur settles his weight onto the balls of his feet, readying himself to turn and lunge up for the throw. His hands slide into position on the shaft of the spear, his eyes fixed on Orm’s face, waiting for the signal. 

“Thirty yards back,” Orm’s voice is growing strained. “Ten yards up. Closing fast.” 

He’s shaking with effort, fighting off the oncoming wave of shock through sheer willpower. Arthur’s heart aches with a fierce sense of pride, even something close to awe, blown away by how tough this bastard really is. Orm’s focus is absolute. He stares at their target while Arthur stares at him, willing himself to share that focus, to stay calm and present and not look down, whatever he does, because if he looks down and sees the widening bloodstain in the snow then he’ll shatter completely and they’ll both be dead. 

“Twenty-five yards. Twenty.” 

It’s so quiet. Arthur can’t even hear the roar of the armor anymore. All he can hear is Orm’s ragged breathing. All he can see are Orm’s eyes, clear as water and sharp as steel. Arthur switches off everything else and concentrates on those eyes alone. A slight dart of the pupils at a shift in altitude, a subtle flare of white around the edges as the plasma reaches its full recharge— the tracking on their target is so precise and intense that for just one instant Arthur could swear that he can see it himself, that the connection between them has reached a point of such profundity that he can look through Orm’s eyes as if they were his own. 

“Fifteen yards,” Orm chokes out, before his whole body stiffens and he hisses: “ _Now_.”

Arthur doesn’t hesitate. At Orm’s word he instantly surges up to his feet and pivots to face their enemy, rearing back his arm and launching the spear with enough force to split a mountain down to its foundations. 

Manta never gets a chance to fire his last plasma charge. The spear punches through his armor like it’s made of glass, throwing him backwards as it buries itself in his left shoulder, inches away from his rage-filled heart. There’s a distorted scream of agony from inside the helmet, his body seizing up and plummeting into a crash that carves a long, ugly gouge into the earth before ending in a jumbled heap. 

He’s not dead. Even at this distance Arthur can see him stir, the armor sputtering weakly as he scrambles to make his retreat. Like anyone with combat training, he knows that Arthur’s best move would be to close in and finish him off on the spot, and he’s frantic to escape while he still can. He’ll be long gone by the time he figures out there’s no one in pursuit. In fact it never even occurs to Arthur to go after him. As soon as Manta ceases to be a threat, he might as well cease to exist. The wilderness is deserted again, leaving Arthur alone as he crumples to his knees in the melting snow. 

“No no _no_ —”

He gathers Orm into his arms as he jerks and shudders, pale hands pressed over his wounded belly, blood slipping inexorably between his fingers like sand running through an hourglass. Gone is the focused calm of only moments ago. When he looks up at his big brother, his eyes are wide and panicked, his expression twisted with fear.

“Arthur,” he whimpers, his voice impossibly small. 

“I’m here.” Arthur pulls him close and holds on tight. “I’ve got you. Just stay with me, okay? Stay with me.” 

Orm clutches at the front of his brother’s shirt with one bloody hand, his eyes locked with Arthur’s, his body arched and straining to obey his command. Arthur is so sick with dread that he can barely breathe. He wonders if this is what drowning feels like. 

“Shit,” he gasps. “ _Shit_ — why did you do that? What the hell were you thinking?”

“No time,” Orm wheezes. “You— you would have been— _ah_ —”

He doubles in on himself, his body wracked with pain while Arthur moans in helpless dismay, his guts boiling up into his throat and his eyes burning like hellfire. 

“That was on me,” he grits out. “That _should’ve_ been on me.” 

“No,” Orm pants, shaking his head. “It’s better this way. Atlantis needs her king.” He clenches his teeth as another wave of agony surges through him. “And the trident— _hnh_ — the trident needs its rightful wielder.” 

“The trident?” Arthur is so close to hysteria that he almost laughs, his voice right at the edge of breaking. “Man, forget the fucking trident— what about _me?_ ”

And he feels so stupid and small when he says it, like a little kid throwing a tantrum the first time he finds out the hard way that the world isn’t fair. It’s just that for months now it seems like all he’s been doing is giving himself away. His time, his energy, his peace of mind— it’s hard, but after years of living as a selfish loner, he’s ready to pay it all back with interest. All he ever wanted in return was this one thing. Just one simple, perfect thing that wasn’t for the kingdoms and wasn’t for the oceans but was for him and him alone. Something to have. Something to hold. 

“Goddamn it, Orm,” he chokes back a sob. “What about what _I_ need?”

He takes his brother’s face in the palm of one hand, his eyes finding Orm’s as sure as a compass needle finds true north. Orm stares up at him, his expression a beautiful, bewildered jumble of pain and confusion— and an unmistakable flicker of hope. Arthur’s chest aches with something that the word _love_ can’t even begin to contain. 

“I need _you_ ,” he says, his voice cracked and raw. “I need my little brother.” 

Orm makes a heart-wrenching sound, plaintive and weak, his grip on Arthur’s shirt tightening in a feeble spasm. Desperate to be closer to him, Arthur leans down to press their foreheads together, his eyes squeezed shut as the connection rushes through his body like a shockwave. _A perfect fit_. Like they were always meant to be this way. 

Arthur will never know how he made it this far without ever realizing that this piece of him was missing. All he knows is that now he’s whole, and he’ll never be the same again. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “I need— I need—”

“Arthur,” Orm whispers, so close that Arthur can feel the warmth of his breath. 

And Arthur kisses him. 

It’s as inevitable as gravity, his mouth crashing into Orm’s like a wave rushing in to claim the shore. He kisses him like he’s never kissed anyone else before— _like he’ll never kiss anyone else again_ — fierce and aching and overflowing with all of the things that he’ll never be able to put into words. He needs Orm to know that nothing has ever mattered the way he matters. No one has ever meant so much. Arthur can’t even begin to explain it— all he can do is kiss him with everything he’s got and hope that it’s enough. 

_God, he hopes it’s enough._

He breaks the kiss with a sharp intake of breath, pulling back so he can look into Orm’s startled eyes. Arthur can feel the exact same stunned expression on his own face, both of them equally amazed by what just happened, so astonished that the silence between them stretches on and on until it’s as thin and delicate as spun glass. Then Orm releases his grip on Arthur’s shirt so he can reach up and cradle his face in one blood-slicked palm. 

“Yes,” he breathes, nodding his head. “Arthur— _yes_ —”

He strains to lean up towards his brother, but he’s too weak to get very far. The pain drags on him like an anchor, his body shuddering in protest as he fights for every inch, his hand slipping from Arthur’s face to clutch at his shoulder. He moans with relief when Arthur catches him by the nape, supporting the weight of his head. 

“S’okay,” Arthur mumbles. “I got you.” 

Orm gazes up at him with eyes so blue they put the whole damn sky to shame. No sky could ever be so clear, so limitless, so bright. Arthur can see everything he needs in those eyes. He can see home.

“Please,” Orm says. “Don’t let go.” 

“Never,” Arthur vows.

And when Orm smiles, Arthur knows he believes it. 

The second kiss leaves the first one a thousand leagues behind. 

If that was the crash of the tide, then this— this is the deepest part of the ocean itself, vast and uncharted, filled with wondrous mysteries. They pull each other close and sink together, Arthur lifting Orm by the nape while Orm grips the back of Arthur’s neck, drawing him deeper and deeper with every heartbeat, as deep as deep can go. At first Arthur can only taste the harsh sting of his own tears, spilling down his face and over their joined lips, warm and salty like the sea. Then his mouth is filled with the taste of the blood from Orm’s palm, as bitter as any poison, sweeter than any wine. Arthur knows in an instant that it will linger on his tongue for the rest of his life. 

All at once Orm is torn away from him, yanked out of the kiss by a bolt of pain that wrenches his head back in an ugly gasp, his eyes screwed shut in agony. Arthur has to swallow down the urge to cry out in dismay. He’s the one who’s supposed to be brave right now. He’s the one who’s supposed to be strong. He gathers Orm into his arms and holds on tight, determined to keep his promise and never let go. Orm buries his face against Arthur’s chest, his breathing thin and shallow, his shoulders wracked with the effort. 

“C’mon, stay with me, little brother,” Arthur rubs his back, powerless to do anything but comfort him. “I need you to stay with me. God, I need you so much.” 

“Arthur—” Orm pants. “ _Ah— hnh_ —”

But his voice sounds all wrong, strangled and weak. When Arthur sits back to take a look at him, Orm’s head lolls to the side, his eyes glassy and losing focus. Panic slams into the base of Arthur’s skull like a railroad spike. 

“Hey!” he stammers, his voice cracking. “Hey, look at me!”

Orm stares off into the middle distance, unseeing and unhearing. Frantic, Arthur grabs his face and turns it towards him, batting at his cheek, desperate to keep him present.

“Orm, c’mon! _Orm!_ ”

As if startled from a dream, Orm gasps and jerks his gaze up to meet Arthur’s, his free hand grasping blindly at the front of his brother’s shirt. 

“Please, Arthur,” he rasps. “Don’t let me die so far from the sea.” 

Arthur clasps his hand over Orm’s, his tone forceful. “You are _not_ gonna die.”

But he can see in Orm’s terrified eyes that he doesn’t believe him. Not this time. And when Arthur chances another look down at the wound, he immediately understands why. Orm is stained with blood from chest to thigh, his hand wet and glistening where it clenches over his belly, hiding the worst of the actual damage from view. Arthur can’t even imagine what it must feel like. He’s never taken an injury like that in his life; in fact until recently he’s never even had to worry about it. He wonders, distractedly, if Orm has been injured in combat before. Surely he must have— though it’s clear from the look in his eyes that this is the worst of all his wounds. He’s more scared than Arthur has ever seen him. Arthur hates every second of it. He gives Orm’s hand an emphatic squeeze to keep them both focused.

“Listen to me,” he says, low and fierce. “I’m gonna get you home. But I need you to stay awake, okay? You gotta stay awake.”

Orm’s eyes are already half-lidded, his brow creased with exhaustion. “I don’t— I don’t know if I can.” 

“You can,” Arthur insists. “And you will. That’s— that’s a _command_.” Inspired, he lets go of Orm’s hand so he can take hold of his face instead, steering him until their gazes lock. “That’s a command from your king.” 

All he was hoping for was a reaction, any kind of reaction, just something that might wake Orm up even a little bit. He is _not_ ready for the change in Orm’s face, his pained expression going suddenly slack with amazement, his eyes wide and shining in awe. Arthur never thought anyone would ever look at him like that— like he’s something so, so good. He blinks back another hot rush of tears as Orm reaches towards his face, tracing Arthur’s jaw with shaking fingertips. 

“My king,” he whispers.

It couldn’t be more obvious— this is the first time he’s ever said those words and meant them with all of his heart. Honored and overwhelmed, Arthur covers Orm’s hand with his own, pressing it to his cheek.

“Yeah,” he whispers back. “That’s right. So you gotta do what I say. And I say you gotta stay awake.” 

Orm manages a weak nod, even though his eyes are still so afraid. “I’ll try.” 

That’s all Arthur could ever ask. Grateful beyond words, he presses a fierce kiss to Orm’s forehead, then leans down to touch the same point with his brow, one last breath shared between them while he gathers his strength. He’s never been more scared in his life. And if this really is the last chance he’ll ever get, then he’ll never forgive himself if he doesn’t say it out loud. 

“Hey,” he says, hoarse. “I love you.” 

For a split-second Orm holds his breath, his eyes snapped shut like someone blinded by the unexpected light of the sun. Then he lets out a rough sob, his body wracked and shuddering, his voice raw with despair. 

“Gods,” he gasps. “I don’t want to die.” 

And with a sinking heart, Arthur gets the awful feeling that this might be the first time he’s ever said those words and meant them, too. 

“C’mon,” he says, fighting to keep his voice level and calm. “Let’s get you home.” 

He tightens his arm around Orm’s shoulders and slips the other one under his knees, pulling his brother to his chest before hauling himself up to his feet. The logical part of him knows that Orm’s weight should be insignificant to his physical strength, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like this is the heaviest burden he’s ever carried. It’s a long way back to the water. 

Arthur wants to bolt for it as fast he can manage, pelting for the shoreline at breakneck speed, but he’s too worried about the damage that such a pace might do, the wound jostled and widened with every pounding step. In the end he sets off at a gait just shy of a run, doing everything he can to try and keep Orm steady in his arms, an endless stream of assurances pouring out of his mouth as he goes. 

“It’s okay,” he mumbles, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “You’re gonna be okay. I got you. Just stay with me. Everything’s gonna be okay.” 

“Arthur,” Orm whimpers, his chin dropped to his chest, his voice fading. “Arthur.” 

The landscape is an indistinct blur around them, the sound reduced to a static hum as Arthur strains every fiber of his being to hear the roar of the ocean. He’s only vaguely aware of the landmarks they passed on the way out— the patch of wildflowers where Orm remarked upon the colors, the pair of trees where Arthur pointed out how the branches had become intertwined, the bark inseparably fused together. He remembers thinking that the world had never looked more beautiful. He knew then that he would be happy to spend the rest of his life just like this, side by side with Orm to share the view. 

This isn’t fair. They’ve only just begun.

Arthur keeps his pace level for as long as he can, but at the first crash of the sea he breaks into a full-tilt sprint, hugging Orm close as he races for the shoreline. He bypasses the fishing village entirely, heading straight for the secluded cove where they first came out of the water. It was a difficult scramble coming up over the rocks leading from the sand, but Arthur is so saturated with adrenaline that he doesn’t even notice the climb down. The next thing he knows he’s crashing into the surf, wading out to his knees and then up to his waist. 

Orm gasps and surges awake when the water hits him. A moment later and his face contorts with indescribable emotion, his eyes fluttering shut as the ocean rises to embrace them.

“Oh,” he sighs. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Arthur murmurs, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Thank me when we get home.” 

The next wave carries them under. 

 

 

 

________


	2. fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah we're still doing this. i won't rest until i've tugged every last heartstring.

-

-

-

They’ve been talking through the bars for weeks, but even so, it feels like they’re meeting for the first time all over again. And really, there are a lot of firsts here— the first time they’ve met without armor, without chains or bars holding them back, without weapons and without anger. The door of the cell opens and just like that, after all those years and all that pain, there’s nothing left to keep them apart. Orm is right there. Arthur exhales, at a total loss.

“Hey,” he says.

Orm nods his head, stiff and uncertain. “My king.” 

The words sound forced to both of them. Orm’s gaze darts away in discomfort while Arthur waves off the formality with a reassuring laugh. 

“C’mon, you don’t have to call me that.”

Those blue eyes flick back to him, then up to trace the outline of the open door. 

“So,” Orm says, making no move to pass through it. “They’ve relented. Our mother must have made a passionate plea.” 

“Not a dry eye left in the house,” Arthur says, before realizing that the idiom doesn’t really work in a world where there’s not a dry anything left anywhere. He coughs awkwardly. “Anyway, uh, I pretty much told ‘em it was happening either way, so they might as well get on board.” 

Orm still hasn’t emerged from the cell, lingering in the confines like an animal bred in captivity. He keeps his hands folded behind his back, his tone neutral.

“I understand her motives for speaking in my defense,” he says. “But... I do not understand yours.” 

Arthur smiles and shakes his head. “Man, I keep telling you. You just gotta listen.” 

He waits patiently while Orm studies his face with all the suspicious intensity of someone carefully reading the fine print in a daunting contract. At last their gazes meet. Orm narrows his eyes, his focus absolute.

“What do you want from me, Arthur?”

Arthur stares right back into him, his heart on his sleeve. 

“The same thing I’ve always wanted,” he says. “To get to know my little brother.” 

It’s the second time Arthur has told him that and yet the reaction is just as unguarded as the first, a vulnerable flicker of shock breaking through Orm’s cultivated mask before he drops his gaze to the floor, his fists clenched at his sides. 

“Only a fool would let me out of this cell,” he mutters. “Surely you know that.” 

“Oh, trust me, I know,” Arthur chuckles. “It’s all everyone’s been telling me for weeks. Even Vulko thinks I’m crazy. In fact, I’d say there’s a grand total of two people who genuinely think this is a good idea, and you’re looking at one of them.” He tosses his head over his shoulder. “The other one is out there. And she’s waiting for you to come home.” 

Orm closes his eyes and sucks in a breath. Arthur doesn’t rush him. And when he’s ready, Orm raises his head, unclenches his fists, and finally crosses the threshold. 

They drift towards each other. Orm is looking at Arthur like he can’t believe he’s real. Arthur wonders if he can tell that the feeling is mutual. Then all at once, they’re face to face.

“You’re a fool,” Orm says, half-accusatory, half-curious. 

“Yeah, well,” Arthur shrugs. “Maybe I am. But you and me together?” He gestures back and forth between them. “I think there’s a chance it could be something great. And for that, I’m willing to take the risk.” 

For a moment Orm has to remain completely still or else risk shattering completely. It flashes through his eyes like a lightning strike, his body petrified with the effort to contain it, his breath held against any involuntary sounds. Only when he trusts his control does he release a shaky exhale, never once breaking eye contact, his eyes holding on to Arthur’s for balance. Then he extends his hand, open and waiting.

“Thank you, Arthur.” His voice is thick with emotion. “I hope I am worthy of it.” 

Arthur takes his hand without hesitation. 

“You’re my little brother,” he reminds him. “That’s worth everything.” 

The expression is almost imperceptible, but Arthur can still see it there at the corner of Orm’s mouth— the faintest hint of a genuine smile. It sets off a pang in Arthur’s chest that he can’t quite describe. 

All he knows is that he wants to see that smile every day for the rest of his life. 

\- - -

“Just— just squeeze my hand, okay? I need you to squeeze my hand, Orm. C’mon. _C’mon_.”

Arthur has one fist clenched on the helm and the other clenched with Orm’s in the space between their seats, their lightweight ship groaning around them as Arthur pushes it to its utmost limits, rocketing back to Atlantis as fast as the craft will allow. The water in the cockpit has grown saturated with red as Orm bleeds out beside him. He’d already stopped responding verbally, but he was still tightening his grip when Arthur asked him— until now. Arthur aches to look over at him but he’s going too fast to risk taking his eyes off course. All he can do is give Orm’s hand a panicked shake, his voice strangled with fear. 

“C’mon, stay with me! You gotta stay with me! Orm, _please!_ ”

He gives a ragged cry of relief when he spots the Atlantean scout ships racing out to meet his distress call. They must be getting close. Arthur holds his speed as the two ships split apart, arcing around him to change direction before pulling out ahead in point positions. A voice comes over his comm system, brisk and calm.

“Your Highness, a route has been cleared to the palace infirmary. We will escort you.”

“Yeah, okay,” Arthur answers, trying to keep his own voice equally calm. “Just hurry. Please.” He squeezes Orm’s hand. “You hear that? We made it. You’re gonna be okay. Just hang in there.” 

Orm doesn’t respond. 

The approach to the city gate forces them to reduce their breakneck pace, Arthur’s stomach dropping along with the whine of the engines. Up ahead he can see traffic being diverted around a central open point, his escort leading him through a gauntlet of guard ships that shuttles them through the barrier and then onward into the city, with sentinels posted all along the way to keep it clear. They’re almost there.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” Arthur barks into the comm. “Speed it up!” 

To their credit, the pilots bring them up to a velocity that’s only just this side of reckless. It’s still not enough. Arthur seriously considers passing them and making a run for it, but if there’s even the slightest chance that he might have trouble finding the infirmary on his own, then he can’t bear to risk it. He grits his teeth and brings his ship right up on the tails of his escorts, chasing them all the way in. 

There’s a whole team standing by in the arrival bay. As Arthur skids the ship to a halt and pops open the containment field, Orm is instantly swarmed by medics, lifted from his seat by swift, capable hands and transferred to a stretcher where he can be strapped and stabilized. Arthur scrambles up out of the cockpit after him, batting away any attempts to check him for injuries of his own. Instead he swims up to look over the crowd of shoulders just in time to see them cutting away Orm’s shirt, exposing the full extent of what happens when someone gets a spearhead shoved into their guts and then violently ripped back out again.

Arthur almost throws up on the spot. 

“Oh, Christ,” he whispers, his eyes wide with horror. “Is he— is he gonna be okay?”

The fear in his voice must be more plaintive than he thought, because when the nearest medic turns to look at him, Arthur can see the pity in her eyes. 

“My king,” she says. “We will do everything in our power.” 

And then they’re gone. 

Arthur wants to follow, but he knows that he would just get in the way. Right here, right now, there’s nothing he can do to help. He hugs his arms around himself, surrounded by guards and totally alone. 

Then a familiar voice calls his name.

“ _Arthur!_ ”

He turns to see Mera barreling into the arrival bay, her face twisted with worry as she rushes to meet him, Vulko hot on her heels. 

“Are you all right?” she gasps, frantically scanning him for any sign of harm. “They said— they said the king had been attacked—”

“It’s Orm,” Arthur cuts her off, hoarse from the tears that he’s trying to hold back. “He— he got hurt.” The next words come out in a feeble whisper. “It’s bad.” 

Mera and Vulko trade matching glances of dismay before Mera looks back at Arthur’s face, her gaze keen and protective.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

“The doctors took him away.” Arthur’s eyes drift over to the corridor where they vanished. “They said— they said they would do— everything they could—”

“And they will,” Mera assures him. “What matters is that you got him here. That’s the best thing you could have done for him.” 

Arthur isn’t comforted at all. “That was _only_ thing I could do for him.”

Mera frowns, but before she can respond, Vulko interjects his concern. 

“The Queen must be notified at once.”

“Yes,” Mera turns away, anxious to be of use. “I’ll go.” 

“ _Wait!_ ”

Even Arthur is surprised by the urgency in his own voice, while Mera and Vulko turn towards him in mutual alarm. Arthur’s eyes find Mera’s on instinct. It wasn’t too long ago that they found themselves together at the brink of another terrifying plunge, face to face with the dread of the unknown. All he can do now is the exact same thing he did then. He holds out his hand.

“Mera,” he pleads. “Will you stay with me?”

Without question she moves to take it in her own. “Of course.” 

“I will go, Your Highness,” Vulko volunteers. 

“Thanks, Vulko,” Arthur struggles to muster an expression of gratitude. “Can you, uh— can you tell her to hurry?” 

Vulko bows his head and jets away from them without a backward glance, his attention now turned solely towards reaching his queen. There’s an Atlantean comm system back at the lighthouse for emergencies; Arthur can only hope his parents are home to hear the call. Lately the two of them have gotten into the habit of taking long, leisurely walks, completely disconnected from the world, without phones or even a watch to keep track of the time. They could be out there right now, comfortable and content, unaware that their hard-earned peace is about to be shattered all over again. Against his will Arthur pictures his mother’s face when she hears the news. It makes him want to sink all the way to the seafloor.

He doesn’t even realize he’s still holding Mera’s hand until she tightens her grip, pulling him out of his fog and leading him towards one of the nearby infirmary corridors. 

“Come on,” she urges. “Let’s find somewhere quiet.” 

It’s already too quiet in the arrival bay, but that’s not what she really means. What she means is somewhere _private_. The guards are keeping a respectful distance, but they’re still _there_ , still watching, half a dozen of them trailing in their wake as Mera searches for a place where she can shield Arthur from view. All she needs is a door that she can tell them to wait outside and guard with their lives. Then Arthur can stop worrying whether or not he’s comporting himself like a king while his entire world caves in around him. 

A secluded waiting room offers the perfect refuge. Mera makes sure that Arthur receives every possible assurance that he’ll be notified of any changes before she closes the door.

She doesn’t even get the chance to ask. It bursts out of him as soon as they’re alone.

“It was him. Black Manta.” 

Instantly Mera’s expression falls in dismay. She knows what he’s thinking.

“You can’t blame yourself for this,” she says.

Arthur barely reacts, because _blame_ barely even begins to describe it. He has reached previously unknown depths of guilt, his mind locked in a slow-motion replay of that fateful meeting on the submarine, the ugly choice he made out of anger, out of spite. He stares down at his empty hands in hollow-eyed regret. First that choice almost cost him Mera, his only friend in his darkest hour. Now it could cost him everything. 

“It was meant for me,” he says, the words barely audible. 

“What was?”

“The spear.” Arthur can still see it, brutal, inevitable. “It was coming right for me. I didn’t stand a chance.” 

When he looks up at Mera, her gaze is impossibly sad, like she already knows exactly what he’s about to say. Maybe this really was inevitable. Maybe they all knew it would eventually come to this. 

“He did it on purpose.” Arthur feels the tears being lifted from his eyes by the sea. “Orm. He knew what would happen and he— he still put himself in the way. For me.” 

Mera takes hold of his hands. She might be crying too, or close to it, though she’s better at letting the elements hide the evidence. 

“Listen to me, Arthur.” There’s only a slight quaver to her voice. God, she’s tough. “Orm thinks the world of you. If this was his choice, then you have to respect it. He wouldn’t want you to feel any guilt.”

She’s right, obviously, but it doesn’t help. Arthur has too many years of experience holding himself personally responsible for the decisions of others. But what’s really funny is, it’s not even Orm’s choices that have him so torn up. It’s his own. Clinging to her hands and unable to hold it back any longer, Arthur blurts out the truth. 

“I kissed him.”

Mera furrows her brow. “You… what?”

Arthur charges on, powerless to stem the tide, his voice rising inexorably in speed and pitch. 

“I was holding him in my arms and when he— when he looked up at me— I knew— I knew I needed him _so much_ —” He’s trembling like a goddamn leaf and he feels so weak and so small and Mera’s eyes are so, so kind. “I just— I had to tell him— I had to _show_ him—” 

“Oh, Arthur.”

Without another word, Mera pulls him into a resolute hug. Arthur sinks down to hide his face in the crook of her neck, his broad shoulders hunched and shaking. He can’t believe that he actually just said all of that out loud. He also can’t believe that Mera is being so tender with him, holding him close and carding her fingers through the loose waves of his hair. He doesn’t know what he ever could have done to deserve a friend like this— but whatever it was, he’s really glad he did it. He’d be a wreck without her now. 

“I can’t lose him, Mera,” he rasps. “I can’t. I can’t.” 

“You won’t,” she asserts fiercely. “He’s going to be fine. Do you hear me? He’s— he’s going to be all right.” 

But there’s an undercurrent of fear in her voice that even she can’t hide. She’s not just trying to convince Arthur. She’s trying to convince herself, too. It’s a bittersweet comfort to realize that she’s just as scared as he is. They really are in this together. Lifting himself out of the embrace, Arthur takes Mera’s face in his hands and presses his brow to hers.

“Hey,” he says, hoarse with gratitude. “I’m really glad you’re here.” 

Mera leans against him. “So am I.” 

They stay that way for what seems like a long while, though in reality it could be anywhere from thirty seconds to thirty minutes. All Arthur knows is that Mera is here and he doesn’t have to be alone. He wishes he was strong enough to tell her that everything would be all right— but the words can’t get past the taste of Orm’s blood on his tongue. 

Suddenly there’s a growing commotion in the corridor outside. Arthur and Mera both turn their heads as the distant murmur builds to a swift crescendo of voices taking up the hail: “ _My Queen_.” 

Arthur never actually decides to move. The next thing he knows he’s already scrambling for the door, yanking it open with enough force to nearly tear it from the frame. He bursts into the corridor just as Atlanna appears at the far end of it, her eyes wild and searching before her gaze settles on him and she lets out a heartrending cry of relief. If they weren’t underwater then Arthur is certain the sound would have brought him to his knees. His face crumples in anguish. 

“ _Mom!_ ”

Atlanna rushes towards him with her arms open, catching him as he plummets like a stone into her embrace. She’s still wearing her surface clothes, blouse and jeans and tennis shoes; she must have jumped straight into the water and made the swim at full speed, unwilling to waste a single moment when she knew her children needed her. And really, she knows little else— there was an attack, Orm was injured, and Arthur brought him home. Now Arthur will have to tell her the rest. The prospect is almost unbearable.

“Oh, my boy,” Atlanna murmurs, cradling his head against her shoulder. “My brave boy.” 

It’s unconditional and he doesn’t deserve it. Arthur screws his eyes shut, so far from brave that he can’t even remember what brave felt like. All he wants is to stay here in her arms forever, safe and held, shielded from whatever comes next. He knows there’s a part of her that wishes more than anything she could give him that sanctuary— but they both know he’s not the only son who needs her now. When she pulls back to look at Arthur’s face, the dread in her eyes almost breaks his heart. 

“Your brother,” Atlanna whispers. “Tell me what happened.” 

Arthur hardly knows where to begin.

With a little discreet coaxing from Vulko, they manage to find their way back into the privacy of the waiting room, Atlanna keeping a hold on Arthur the whole way. The door closes softly in their wake while Mera greets them with a shaky nod, her strained posture relaxing visibly upon Atlanna’s arrival.

“My Queen.”

“Mera.” Atlanna offers a fragile smile. “Dear girl.” 

She looks back at Arthur with those blue, blue eyes — _Orm’s eyes_ — and Arthur can’t take it. 

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he chokes out. “I’m so sorry. I tried to keep him safe— I was _supposed_ to keep him safe—”

But Atlanna is already shaking her head at the first apology, and before he can go any further she reaches out to take his face in her hands, a gesture that silences and steadies him with the same gentle touch. 

“Hush,” she says, quiet but firm. “That’s enough. Whatever happened, I know that both of you did everything you could to protect each other. That’s all I could ever ask of you.” 

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and struggles to take comfort in her words. After all, what she’s saying is true— he did everything in his power to keep Orm from harm. It’s just that, in the end, Orm was the one who did more. 

“He was the brave one,” Arthur says, his chest aching. “God, you would have been so proud.”

Atlanna makes a plaintive, inarticulate sound, torn somewhere between fierce satisfaction and anguished dismay. She fights to keep the fear from her face but she can’t keep it out of her eyes, like a blazing light shining around the edges of a locked door. The only thing keeping her together is her determination not to let her agony for one son keep her from being a comfort to the other. She doesn’t even know how Orm was injured. She only knows that Arthur told her to hurry. 

“Please,” she says, a quaver in her voice. “Tell me.” 

Arthur takes her hands in his own. The longer they maintain eye contact the easier it is to breathe, his heart rate slowing from a frantic thunder to something he might actually be able to survive. She’s here. He’s okay. Now it’s his turn to be brave. 

“I just wanted to show him the surface.” His voice is small but solid. “I… I wanted to show him everything.” 

Atlanna nods in understanding, effectively dismissing any subsequent attempts to blame himself for what comes next. They’ve both spoken many times of their desire to share with Orm this half of the world that he was denied for so long. Of course she would never blame Arthur for taking this opportunity; she would have done the same thing.

“We were inland,” he continues, determined to make it all the way through. “And we were… attacked. Ambushed.” There’s a lump in his throat that he swallows down like a pill. “I, uh, I knew him. The attacker. He was there for me.” 

He attempts to swallow again and can’t quite manage it. The words won’t come out. Mera, as usual, tries to come to his rescue.

“We fought him in Sicily,” she offers. “On the search for the trident.” 

“He was there for me, too,” Arthur reminds her, sharp and bitter. “And the trident had nothing to do with it.” He forces himself to look back at Atlanna. “He’s called Black Manta, and we— we met before.” 

_Before_. That single word has never meant as much as it does now. _Before you came back. Before I learned. Before I knew._ He’s changed so much since that terrible choice that he can hardly believe he ever made it. 

“I could have saved his father’s life, and I didn’t.” It sounds impossible now, like the actions of a total stranger. “He begged for mercy and I— I walked away.” 

“They were _pirates_ ,” Mera interjects, forceful and defensive. 

“They were _helpless_ ,” Arthur retorts. “And I didn’t help. I _could_ have helped, but I didn’t. And that’s on me.” 

A tight squeeze on his hands draws his attention back to the intense focus of Atlanna’s gaze. She reaches up to lay a hand on his face, her tone gentle but firm. 

“You made a choice,” she says. “We all make choices, Arthur. Sometimes we make the wrong ones. And when that happens, all we can do is make sure that we learn from it.” She strokes her thumb across his cheek, right where the tear track would be. “Did you learn?”

They both know the answer to that already. When the time came to face this decision again, Arthur didn’t just choose to grant mercy— he offered it freely, of his own accord. And when that offer was refused, he insisted upon it. Orm’s throat was laid bare before the trident and it never once occurred to Arthur to press in. All he remembers thinking is: _I’m gonna forgive you whether you like it or not._

Some lessons you have to learn the hard way. Of course, that means you only learn them when it’s already too late.

“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur says, miserable. “I made the choice, and that choice made an enemy. This guy wasn’t after Orm. He was after me. It should have been me.” 

Atlanna gives a clipped shake of her head. “Don’t say that.” 

“He had a spear,” Arthur bulldozes over her attempts to placate him. “He had a spear and he threw it right at me. And you know what? I would have deserved it. But Orm—” His voice cracks and he has to look away, his courage in tatters. “Orm got in the way.” 

“You can’t blame yourself,” Atlanna insists. “If he was injured fighting by your side—”

Now it’s Arthur who shakes his head, quick and decisive. 

“No, Mom. He wasn’t by my side. He was in front of me.” 

There’s a dawning comprehension in her gaze, but that’s not enough. Arthur has to make sure she really understands. She has to know what Orm did for him. 

“I was on my back. I had nowhere to run. And Orm just... came out of nowhere.” He exhales, awestruck at the memory. “He was so fast. I don’t know how he did it. But he was there, and he— he—” Arthur presses a hand over his belly. “He took it. For me. It went right into him. ” It’s like he’s watching it unfold all over again, his breathing accelerating, the words tumbling out faster and faster. “And I couldn’t— I couldn’t stop him— it happened so _fast_ — he was just _there_ and it was too late and his hands— his hands were— covered in blood— there was so much blood— _Mom_ —”

They rush simultaneously into an embrace, clinging to each other with the same ragged gasp of anguish. Grief pummels Arthur like a hurricane, his body wracked with shudders while Atlanna cradles his head and shushes him through her tears, her lips pressed steadfastly to his temple. She hasn’t even heard the rest of the story— how Orm tore the weapon out of his own body and pressed it into Arthur’s open hands; how he fought through the pain to become Arthur’s eyes and they made the shot together; and then, when it was over, how Arthur took Orm in his arms and… and… 

“Oh, my son,” Atlanna whispers, tremulous. “Your brother loves you so much.” 

Arthur clenches his teeth against a sob. He wants to be brave for her, for Orm’s sake. She’s already been through hell. He can’t bear to be one more thing for her to worry about. He can’t even bear to finish the story— there will be plenty of time for that later. Right now they need to save their strength. 

At first it seems like they’ll never be able to catch their breath. But after a stretch of time, when they’ve drawn all the courage they can from the embrace, they finally pull apart so they can look each other in the eye. Atlanna’s face is tired, but there’s steel in her gaze. She touches her son’s face and then takes his hand. 

“Arthur,” she says. “Would you like to see your father?” 

Once again the water saves him from crashing to his knees. “Yeah. Yeah, I really would.” 

Atlanna gestures for Vulko, who moves forward to offer a handheld comm system. The blinking display indicates that a call is standing by— it must already be connected to the setup back at the lighthouse. In his mind’s eye Arthur can see Tom waiting anxiously by the control panel and it almost overwhelms him, his chest tight and his throat burning with emotion. 

“Come on, Vulko,” Mera says. “Let’s wait outside.” 

Vulko, ever tactful, was already heading in that direction, and together the pair of them slip discreetly into the corridor beyond. Arthur has just enough restraint to wait for the door to close behind them before he hastily fumbles open the comm channel. 

Even before the hologram finishes forming, Arthur recognizes the outline of the shape. Then the image crystallizes and there’s Tom’s worn, worried face, his whole body sagging in relief when he’s finally able to see his son, his voice cracked with exhaustion. 

“Hey, kiddo.” 

The need to hug him is so instantly, physically urgent that Arthur has to grab on to Atlanna’s shoulder for support, his voice equally raw in answer. 

“Hey, Dad.” 

“Are you all right?” Tom nervously examines the hologram on his end. “Are you hurt?” 

“It’s okay,” Arthur tries to smile to prove it. “I’m okay.” 

But Tom isn’t convinced. His gaze shifts to Atlanna, his tone apprehensive. 

“Is he all right?”

Atlanna gently touches Arthur’s shoulder. “He’s not hurt.” 

Tom closes his eyes and exhales, allowing himself one small moment of gratitude. Then he looks back at his son, his expression filled with sadness. 

“I’m so sorry, Arthur,” he murmurs. “I wish I could be there with you.”

“Yeah,” Arthur takes a shaky breath. “Me too.”

“They said your brother was—” Tom frowns and looks back and forth between them. “How is he?”

“He’s, uh, he’s in surgery now.” Arthur hates how useless he feels when he says it. “They’re doing everything in their power.” 

“That’s good, that’s good,” Tom nods encouragingly. “Boy, I’ll bet the doctors down there are really something else, huh? They’ll get him all fixed up. You’ll see.” He nods again, firm and decisive. “Oh, yes. He’s going to be just fine. You know how I know that?” Tom spreads his hands. “Because I haven’t had a chance to meet him yet! No way he’s getting out of that. No, sir. He’ll just have to stick around.” 

The words are meant to be comforting, but instead they pierce Arthur like an icicle, his blood running cold with dread. All those weeks spent struggling to figure out exactly the right time to bring Orm to the lighthouse— it was so important— Arthur just wanted it to be _perfect_ —

_What if he waited too long?_

“Dad,” Arthur chokes out. “I’m really scared.” 

Tom makes an involuntary sound, his empty hands opening and closing in anguished frustration. 

“I know, kiddo, I know,” he says, rough. “You just— you lean on your mother, now, all right? You lean on that strength.” He looks to Atlanna, trying to take his own advice. “She’s stronger than all of us.” 

Arthur glances over at her. “I know.” 

“And I want you both to know,” Tom continues. “I’m not going anywhere. If you need to call— if you need to come home— I’ll be here. I’m not leaving the house.” He gives a conspiratorial wink. “Guess I’ll have to cancel my appointment at the beauty salon, huh?” 

It’s a stupid dad joke and it fucking _works_ , Arthur letting out a convulsive bark of laughter through his tears. Tom beams with satisfaction even as he surreptitiously reaches up to wipe away a few tears of his own. 

“Hang in there, kiddo,” he says. “You know where to find me.” 

Arthur can’t even begin to express his gratitude. All he can say is: “I love you, Dad.” 

“I love you too. Both of you.” Tom’s voice softens. “Atlanna? I’m here. I’m right here.”

“My love,” Atlanna whispers. “You will meet my son. I feel it.” 

Tom whispers back. “Me too.” He gestures back and forth between the pair of them. “Take care of each other. I’ll see you soon.” 

The hologram goes dark.

All they can do now is wait. 

“Come,” Atlanna says, taking Arthur’s hand. “A change of clothes will do us both good.” 

For the first time since he hit the water, Arthur remembers that he’s still dressed like a surface dweller. All at once he’s keenly aware of the garments drifting around on his skin, the uncomfortable weight of his jeans, his boots like bricks strapped to his feet. When he looks down he sees that his clothes are still soaked with Orm’s blood, the stains seeping into a faint red halo around his person. He looks away again, his stomach turning. 

“Yeah,” he says weakly. “That’d be great.” 

She already knows that he’ll never consent to leaving the infirmary wing. Instead Atlanna has an attendant bring them both something to wear, then finds a pair of neighboring rooms where they can get dressed in private. It’s only a few minutes but it’s still too long for Arthur to be alone, his anxiety mounting as he fumbles to strip the blood-stained clothes off of his body. There was so much blood— spilling over Orm’s hands— the taste of it— god, the _taste_ —

Swallowing back tears, Arthur hastily dresses in the undersuit that he’s been provided. The colors are a dark, muted echo of the king’s armor. The old clothes get left behind. He never wants to see them again. 

They find each other again in the sanctuary of their waiting room, Arthur and Atlanna hurrying to join hands while Mera and Vulko stay close by, all four braced to share the burden of this vigil between them. It could be hours. It could be any minute. Somewhere in the corridors beyond, Orm’s life hangs in the balance. _There was so much blood_. Arthur wishes he believed in prayer. 

“Arthur, listen to me,” Atlanna murmurs. “No matter what happens, I want you to know— how _glad_ I am today.”

Startled, Arthur jerks his gaze up to meet hers, his eyes wide and wounded. Hers are shining with emotion, and she takes his face in her hands to reassure him. 

“All I ever wanted was for my sons to be together. I wanted you to have each other. And I was so afraid— there were so many things keeping you apart—” She shakes her head, her voice full of wonder. “But you found each other. And I’ll always be glad for that.” 

Arthur is so completely hollowed out by her words that it takes him a second to remember that she doesn’t even know how true they really are. She doesn’t know what he did— how he took Orm in his arms— how Orm whispered yes, _yes_ — how they found each other, _at last_ they found each other—

“Mom, I—” Arthur blinks against the sudden sting in his eyes. “I have to tell you something—”

But as soon as it forms on the tip of his tongue, it already feels wrong. He shouldn’t say it out loud. He shouldn’t have even told Mera. This isn’t his secret to tell— it’s his and Orm’s, this incredible thing that happened between them, a pact made in the middle of nowhere at what felt like the end of the world. He has no right to share it yet. Before he talks about it with anyone else, he needs to talk about it with Orm first. 

That’s why Orm has to be all right. They need to figure out what the hell is going on, and where the hell they go from here. 

Atlanna is waiting, her brow furrowed in apprehension. He has to tell her _something_. Arthur coughs to clear the knot from his throat. 

“He— he saved us both,” he says, giving her at least that much of the truth. “Manta was coming back to finish us off. And Orm, he— he pulled out the spear and gave it to me. I never could have made the shot without him.” 

He doesn’t need to see the proof of her tears to know that Atlanna is crying, her smile fierce and radiant, her hands squeezing Arthur’s in a surge of pride. 

“You see?” she says, beaming. “He’s strong, Arthur. Stronger than you know.” 

Overwhelmed, she brings Arthur’s hands to her mouth for a fervent kiss. Arthur chances a glimpse over at Mera, who narrows her eyes in an unspoken question. She knows what he was going to say and she’s wondering why he didn’t say it. Arthur answers with a fractional shake of his head. _Not yet_. Mera nods her assent. He knows he can trust her with anything, even this. 

Atlanna raises her eyes again, tired but happy. 

“You said you were showing him the surface.” She rubs her thumbs over Arthur’s knuckles, sweet, soothing. “Tell me about that. Tell me what you saw. Did he like it?”

Where before he could only see the blood on Orm’s hands, now Arthur can see something else— Orm’s pale fingers curled around the petals of a wildflower, his blue eyes bright with admiration. The memory is almost enough to make Arthur smile, if he weren’t so goddamn exhausted. He sighs instead. 

“He loved the flowers.” 

They keep their voices soft and low, as if anything louder than murmur will ruin the fragile peace they’ve managed to create for themselves. Arthur tells them how Orm was fascinated by the flora; how he was captivated by the sky; how a sudden flight of terns startled him into almost stumbling right back onto his ass. He doesn’t mention how their hands drifted together as they walked; how perfectly their fingers entwined. He doesn’t say anything about how empty his hands feel now. 

All in all, he does a pretty good job keeping his shit together. Orm would definitely be impressed— he knows that Arthur usually can’t keep his shit together for _shit_. But here he is, calm, actually calm, his tone nice and even—

—until a knock at the door leaves him paralyzed right down to the bones. 

“Yes,” Atlanna calls. “Come in.” 

The chief physician gives a deferential bow as she enters the room, nodding to the queen and the king in turn. Arthur wants to give her permission to speak, but his own tongue has turned as numb and heavy as lead, his heart rate skyrocketing in fear. Atlanna seems similarly struck, but she has the strength to muster a faint, “What news?”

“My Queen.” Another bow. “Prince Orm is out of surgery.” 

“And?” Atlanna’s voice is right at the edge of breaking. “Is he—?”

“The damage was quite severe, Your Highness. It took many hours to close his wounds. But—” She doesn’t let the dread linger, eager to deliver the good news. “The wounds are closed. With time and rest, we believe he will make a full recovery.” The physician bows for a third time. “If you would like to see him, he is in recovery now.” 

Arthur doesn’t breathe until Atlanna grabs his arm. Then he sucks in a deep, desperate lungful, dizzy and lightheaded, grasping blindly at his mother’s arm for an anchor. The next thing he knows he’s pulling her into an embrace, holding her close as she buries her face against his shoulder to muffle a wild cry of relief. Mera’s hand is on his back and Arthur looks over at her, their eyes locked in mutual overjoyed agreement. 

“Yes,” Vulko says, speaking for all of them. “Take us to see the prince.” 

\- - -

They’ve been told that Orm could wake at any time. Meanwhile they’ve made him as comfortable as they can, his head propped on a pillow and his bandages covered only by a light blanket, his bare arms resting on top so that Arthur and Atlanna can each hold a hand as they sit on either side of him. He looks so vulnerable, so small. Arthur counts every breath, each one more precious than the last. He never wants to let go of this hand again. 

On the other side of the bed, Atlanna hums a melody that’s so, so familiar. It takes a while for Arthur to recognize it as the song that she used to sing to him when he was falling asleep as a child. He doesn’t know why it never occurred to him that Orm would have grown up with the same lullaby. 

“You’re all right,” Arthur murmurs to him, a promise kept. “You’re all right.” 

Atlanna smiles at him, her humming unbroken.

They stir when Orm stirs, his hand tugging first in Atlanna’s grip and then Arthur’s. They both lean forward in anticipation, their breaths held as Orm’s eyelids flutter and slowly open, revealing that incredible, unforgettable blue. His gaze pulls instinctively towards Atlanna, his eyes widening in bleary recognition, his voice thick and slurred. 

“Mother…?” 

“Shh,” Atlanna reaches out to cup his face in her palm. “I’m here, sweet boy.” 

Orm has the dazed, disoriented expression of someone waking from a convoluted dream, his eyes darting around the infirmary room as he struggles to come back to reality. He looks so confused, so lost— until his gaze settles on his brother. 

The fog lifts. All at once Orm’s eyes are clear and calm, his voice quiet and certain. 

“Arthur.” 

Arthur exhales, at a loss. 

“Hey.”

It’s like they’re meeting for the first time all over again. 

 

 

 

________


End file.
